Rescued MC (The Nighthawks MC Book 13) Page 11

  Ivy woke up two hours later with her wife’s fingers sliding over her skin. Callie kissed her, drank deep. “You taste like whiskey, smoke, and sex,” Callie said.

  Ivy laughed deep in her throat. “And you want…”

  “Sex,” said Callie.

  “If I must,” said Ivy, making Callie laugh into her mouth.

  Callie mounted her wife, pulled off the oversized Dark Power T-shirt the bandmates had given her, ripped off her wife’s panties, and kissed her way from Ivy’s neck to her crotch. Ivy arched her back, let out a low groan. Callie got her tongue in between Ivy’s thighs, and pushed her way with her fingers deep inside. Ivy groaned, and came in great shuddering gasps. Ivy returned the favor, with lips and teeth, and tongue, making Callie put a pillow over her own face to stifle her screams. Ivy screamed, low, as Callie slid her fingers into Ivy and made her come again.

  Callie grabbed a wet wipe and cleaned up Ivy, then herself. Then, they went back to sleep, in a tangle of arms and legs, braided hair spread out over the pillows.

  Callie woke up, took a shower, and ate a huge meal of French-style tapas —country bread drizzled with oil and scrambled eggs, prosciutto, and parmesan cheese. She also drank cappuccino that coiled the hair on her head.

  She hit up the Cloisters for medieval art, the National Museum of the American Indian, and the Smithsonian Design Museum. She ate a slice of the best deep-dish Italian sausage pizza she’d ever had, and washed it down with a Coke. Museum-ed out, she went to Central Park and just wandered around. She got to the Statue of Liberty, and then made it back to the hotel.

  Callie found a little Italian restaurant, and ate a dinner of romano cheese and Italian sausage-stuffed tortellini with pesto, wine, and gorgeous Italian bread. Ivy stumbled into the restaurant, in black leather from head to toe. She wore sunglasses in the restaurant. She slid her plate over to her wife, and handed Ivy her fork. Ivy took a bite and groaned.

  “My god,” she said. “That’s the best pasta ever.” Callie called over the server, and ordered another. She had to; it was gone almost before she was finished ordering.

  “Rock n’ roll night,” said Callie. “I took a little nap. Ready to follow where you lead.” She grinned as Ivy finished the wine, and gestured for another bottle. “I foresee… maybe some singing, perhaps?”

  “Last night,” said Ivy, gulping water. Callie ordered another carafe. “It was an awesome band called Dark Power.” The staff hurried over with more wine, bread, an appetizer of mushrooms stuffed with shrimp and garlic, and more tortellini. Ivy ate as if she’d never eaten before.

  “And this is why I love you,” said Callie. “Old and new, better and best.” She grinned. “I need a rock n’ roll makeover.”

  “Six blocks over,” said Ivy.

  “You’re kidding,” said Callie, diving into her new plate of food.

  “I shit you not,” said Ivy. “Including the glitter makeup, and the fantastic boots.” She put one up on a chair. The black boots had a low heel, and glittered with a sparkling light.

  “I want,” said Callie, stroking the boots.

  “Can have,” said Ivy. She ate some more food with her fingers, like Damia used to do before she developed table manners.

  “Slow down,” said Callie. “I swear the food won’t run off.”

  Ivy grinned, and Callie found her heart smashing itself against her wild wife’s spirit. “I will try to behave better in public,” she said.

  “Wild thing,” sang Callie.

  “You make my heart sing,” sang Ivy.

  “You make everything… groovy,” they sang together.

  Callie paid the bill, and Ivy walked Callie to the “rock chick store,” a store that sold leather goods, and had a tattoo parlor on one side, and a rock makeup artist on the other. Callie had a lighter wallet afterward, but looked absolutely slamming in artfully ripped glittery black jeans, a black bustier, and a leather jacket.

  They went on a tour of clubs, from smoky jazz to rock, to headbanging. Ivy got to get in on a few sets; Dark Power had spread the word about a Vegas rock club owner making the rounds.

  Ivy sang everything she could. She headbanged with the best of them, and loved jumping and howling, screaming and singing. Ivy sang gently, calmly, when the band went for a break, Patience, stealing a guitar. Callie came up for the “walking the streets” part, singing the part on her own.

  Then, a mess of women with their hair braided on one side came up, instruments in hand, and they did Walk this Way and Whole Lotta Love. Callie sat on a stool and shook the tambourine when they went into Hazy Shade of Winter, followed by Zombie. Then, they played more brilliance, making Callie and Ivy smile profusely. They called themselves the Inner Warriors, and the audience loved everything they did.

  They all went out to breakfast. Ivy, Callie, and the New York Valkyries. They exchanged rock stories, stories of the road, and their favorite Harley stories. The one with red ringlet hair was Aldrnari, Fire, the lead guitarist. Fyrst, or first, was the main singer, with a mass of black curls and coffee-colored skin. Logi, Ablaze, was the lead singer, also with fire-red hair, it was tinged with gold at the ends. Fyrst, or Desire, was the violinist and bass guitarist.

  “Hear you can get us into your club,” said Fyrst, when all the coffee, bacon, eggs scrambled with cheese, sausage, and fat biscuits were gone.

  “Also hear you have warriors to transport to Las Vegas,” said Logi.

  “We do,” said Ivy. “We’ve got two more days here, and then we pick them up. One in Albany, one in Allentown, one in Columbus, two in St. Louis, one in Oklahoma City, two in Denver. We’ve got the days and times down. Just gotta do a meet.”

  “Got tomorrow booked,” said Fyrst. “Then, we ride.”

  They did a lot of high-fiving, and they all went back to their places and spaces. Callie and Ivy crashed like logs in their hotel, and didn’t awaken until the afternoon. They ate slices of pizza and drank Cokes. They went to the New York Botanical Garden and the Metropolitan Museum of Art. They scored tickets to Wicked, and ate in Chinatown first.

  After the show, they met up with the Valkyries, and sang, but they didn’t close down the night again. Instead, they walked the streets, ate hot dogs, hit up more clubs, and ended up near the hotel at three a.m., an early hour for Ivy. They danced in a little jazz joint until four, nearby, and then they headed up for bed.

  Their lovemaking was slow, as it had been before babies had invaded their lives and beds, before little girls would rush in their bedroom, singing some snatches of song or demanding to be taken somewhere. Ivy stroked every part of Callie, and Callie did the same. Ivy found ice in the tiny refrigerator, and stroked it over Callie.

  Callie screamed, stole the ice, and threw it into the bathroom. “Crazy bitch!” said Callie.

  “Absolutely,” said Ivy. “And that’s why you love me.” She dragged Callie back to the bed. Ivy was all fingers and kisses, strokes and fun. They laughed, and took their time.

  Somehow they ended up in the bathtub, Ivy on the bottom, Callie slowly and luxuriously kissing her. “We do have to sleep sometime,” Callie said.

  “I doubt that,” said Ivy. She sucked Callie’s earlobe.

  “Oh my god,” said Callie.

  “See?” said Ivy. “You sleep; you miss what I can do.”

  “I don’t have time to miss it,” said Callie. “You have your fingers everywhere.”

  Ivy laughed. “Only when we don’t have twenty-seven kids in the house.”

  “When was the last time we had silence in the house?” asked Callie.

  “Right now,” said Ivy. “When we’re not there.”

  “Still have the dogsitter come in.”

  “So, dog breathing,” said Ivy.

  “Oh my god,” said Callie, as Ivy’s hand slipped under the water, and stroked her. “Stop that... never.”

  They half-drowned as Ivy brought Callie to the edge and over, again and again.

  Callie finally drained the tub. “Sleep,” s
he said.

  “Never,” said Ivy.

  They finally slipped into sleep at dawn. They slept into the afternoon, and Callie managed to reach the hotel phone with her fingers to call for room service. They dined on pesto gnocchi and breadsticks, and drank champagne. They spent some time in Central Park, and wandered the streets, looking for things to do and see. They had a wonderful time, wandering in and out of stores, and they ate bar food and watched a game in a sports bar. They ate ice cream cake at a sweet shop, and ran back to the hotel, laughing.

  In the morning, they met the ladies before the tunnel in a parking lot in the dark. They made good time, and ate breakfast at the break of dawn somewhere in Pennsylvania. They picked up Staff Sergeant “Trace” Phillips in Albany, a female with a brand-new 3D printed arm. She had a short haircut and had obviously forgotten how to sleep. She got on behind Callie. They picked up Lieutenant “Fire” Ruben, a woman with fire-red hair and a face pinched from a lack of food. She hopped on behind Aldrnari, arranged her blade legs, Ivy handed Fire a breakfast bar, and they were gone.

  The black-haired Major “Radium” Mille chose to ride behind Logi when they hit Columbus. Her scars went down the side of her face and all the way into her neck. They went to a restaurant and fed them steaks, hamburgers, and Cokes. Fire’s hands shook as she ate. They shared rooms at a hotel, and they were there to wake the women up when the screaming started.

  They took off before dawn, and picked up Major “Rayne” Reynaldo. She had a mass of brown curls tied back, a wide face, and two artificial hands. They got everyone fed, and then they put Rayne on Fyrst’s Harley and picked up Specialist “Desert” Darden. The woman had a stump, with no artificial hand yet. Ivy handed over the box they’d picked up at a delivery place, and showed the woman how to put on and use her new arm. They made sure she’d eaten, and she wanted to be on Ivy’s bike. They made it past Kansas City before they had to get sleep.

  Fyrst got them all awake, and they headed out before dawn to find Specialist “Champ” Chardones just outside Oklahoma City. She had her blue-black hair in twists, and she was all in black, ready to ride. She acted like she’d always had a blade leg.

  They made it to Denver, despite plenty of stops to keep everyone fed. They all wanted to meet the newcomers. Sergeant “Chick” Ralachares was there, a beauty with curves and a very obvious limp, a cane, and a hard face from physical pain. They went to find Specialist “Queenie” Quinn, a tiny woman with charcoal skin and eyes and black hair with crimson tips at a rest stop outside Denver. She rode with Callie.

  They flowed out, over the mountains. The women were terrified, excited, breathing deeply of aspens and new opportunities. They bedded down for the night under tents, letting the night take the screams of those who couldn’t sleep without revisiting their pasts. They took turns stoking the fire, staying up with the ones who couldn’t sleep, keeping Fire fed on hot dogs and soup. They rode out to Vegas, in the dawn of a new day.

  They arrived in Vegas at the new apartment house to find a situation in turmoil. There were two, three-bedrooms available, and both Lily and Tito had confirmed. But, it seemed that the previous occupants of one of the apartments were a herd of drunken college boys. They left holes in the walls; a floor caked with grime, and stole some of the appliances. The landlord dragged his heels on either getting an estimate or fixing the apartment. Bannon was apprised of the situation, and so he bought the apartment complex.

  Tito and a herd of Wolfpack were busy fixing the apartment and getting it clean. The previous landlord, his idiot of an apartment manager, and a succession of drunken, thieving maintenance men had left the place in ill repair. They had a punch list for the current apartment, but the baby in 303 needed working electricity to heat bottles, and the old man in 211 needed a working air conditioner. It was a money pit, but could be a really good place if repaired. Tito was covering Nico’s spot as well, while he was in Italy, and he and his people were spread way too thin. The arrival of shell-shocked future tenants wasn’t good. The arrival of a pride of Valkyries —priceless.

  Callie ran the bike home and came back with a pile of jeans and T-shirts for dirty work, two toolboxes, cleaning supplies, and drinks and snacks in a cooler. The ladies put booties over their work boots, and attacked the problems. The holes were meshed, mudded, and filled. The house was cleaned from top to bottom. Valkyries paired with Tito’s people and Wolfpack, putting at least three people on each job.

  Tito was then free to run from top to bottom, knocking on doors, making a punch list. He was busier than a person with twelve small children, but he couldn’t leave these people without air conditioning or with a leaking toilet. He called the building inspector, the elevator repairperson, the heating and cooling expert, and the roofer. Bannon’s deep pockets were paying for it. The maintenance would come first, then repainting, putting in all new lights, and a much better security system.

  The good news was that one of the current Wolfpack who was ready to move out could do the maintenance as a part-time job in exchange for the room. The apartment was spacious; two of them could stay. He almost texted Henry, until he remembered the man was out in the desert with horses and little girls. Besides, they could make a determination themselves. He took two Valkyries with him to kick out the old manager; he’d already been told he was fired when Bannon bought the property the day before. But, he was outright refusing to move.

  Tito knocked on the door. The manager didn’t answer. Tito pounded, and said, “It’s the new owners.”

  “Let me,” said Fyrst. “You were planning to replace the lock on the door?”

  “Part of the punch list,” said Tito. “They’re a joke. Just don’t shatter the…”

  Fyrst kicked in the door. A man in faded jeans, a work shirt, and tennis shoes was in the kitchen. He had a flabby body, skin peeking out from under the shirt, a wide face, and a scraggly brown beard and uncombed brown hair on his head. It took them all of a second to see that he was trying to remove the hookups to the oven. Fyrst was next to him in a second. She wrinkled her nose at the stench. There was sweat, alcohol, and now fear.

  “Stealing the appliances?” she said. “I bet you helped the other tenants steal theirs. For a fee.” She grinned at his sickly smile.

  “I dinna…” he said. “I…”

  “Where are your packing boxes?” Fyrst said. “I see you have only packed the built-in microwave.” She grinned at him. “Go in your room. Now. Pack your things. You’re getting arrested, or you’re packed and gone in twenty-three minutes.” She grinned. “Understand?”

  He stared, brown eyes swimming. “You can’t do that. I have thirty days.”

  Tito snapped pictures with his cell phone of the soon-to-be-stolen microwave, the tools, and the attempt to steal the oven. “We know several people on the police force. I can have someone from Robbery-Homicide here in ten minutes.” He grinned. “Your choice.”

  Logi leaned on the ruined door. “Move,” she said, her voice low, a growl.

  “Move,” said Fyrst. She grinned, and used her Bronx accent on him. “From where we’re from, we’d be measuring you for cement shoes.”

  “You’re Mob?” squeaked the disheveled man.

  “What do you think?” asked Logi, using the same accent. “What part of ‘move’ confuses you? Do you understand English?”

  Fyrst took out one of her boot knives, and cleaned under her fingernails. “I’ll…” stammered the man. He turned, and shuffled off toward his bedroom.

  “Faster,” said Fyrst. “We have work to do, all the work you didn’t do.”

  The man shuffled over. Tito took photos of him. “For the mug shot,” he said. The man groaned, and shuffled toward his bedroom. Tito pulled out his phone. “Yeah, Hy. Bring down the boxes to the manager’s apartment on the first floor and some packing tape. Thanks.” He then called April. “Who needs a house? We’ve got an apartment manager position, a lot of work in the beginning, with lots of help. One or two. There’s a den that can be loppe
d off into a bedroom, or share, if you want two instead.”

  “I’ll find out,” said April. “We need the damn room.” She hung up.

  “Hey,” said the man, a pile of dirty clothes in his hands. “You movin’ someone in…”

  “Hurry,” said Fyrst. She grinned, and made as if to throw her knife at him. The little, soft man squeaked, and ran back in.

  “What’s his name, anyway?” asked Logi, in the strong Bronx accent Fyrst had affected.

  “Daniel Jenkins. Known as Muff,” said Tito.

  “Muff,” said Fyrst, and both women laughed.

  The boxes arrived, and Hy started putting the appliances back where they belonged and hooking them back up. The stacking washer and dryer had been unhooked and pulled out of the linen-type closet where they should be housed. Fyrst helped Hy slide things where they belonged; while Logi stood over Muff and pointed at things he should pack; now using her own boot knife.

  “What about the furniture?” asked Muff, as he struggled to move his boxes and a duffel bag full of clinking bottles of booze to the door.

  Tito glared at the man. “This was a furnished apartment. Take your filthy things and get the fuck out.”

  Hy went upstairs, and came back down with a flatbed wheeled mover. Logi stood over him, and watched as Muff struggled to load his boxes. “A little help?” Muff gasped.

  Logi gave him a flat stare. “Thieves don’t get help.” She cleaned out under her fingernails. “Hurry. Your time is almost up.”

  Muff struggled to get everything, right down to the meager contents of the cabinets. Everyone except Hy walked Muff to his car, an ancient hatchback. They waited in the heat while Muff struggled to load it. Tito took a picture of the license plate, and said, “Your car ends up back here, it’s getting towed. Hand over your keys.”

  Logi came up behind Muff, put her knife back in its sheath, and slid on her gloves. “I’ll pat him down,” she said. Muff glared, and handed over the key ring. “And the skeleton key.”